Friday, December 4, 2015
NaNoWriMo Novel Snippets
Y'all knew this was coming, right? Who could do 50K in a month without sharing snippets! :) I had an absolutely thrilling time last month with my first NaNoWriMo. Preparation paid off, and the Lord was gracious in blessing those efforts. Thank-you all for the prayers, encouragement, virtual chocolate, and rejoicing with me over the victory. :)
As a thank-you to you all, here are some snippets! They are first draft stuff, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless.
The chilly wind blew through his shirt as he skirted the stone walk of the huge Opernplatz square under the big Grecian columns of the Staatsoper Unter den Linden opera building. It was lit up brightly for an evening of music and entertainment, and part of him wished he could join them.
“I’m just a stable hand, sir. I follow orders. When someone wants me to come, I come. When they want me to run an errand, I do it. When Ernest Reinhardt requested me to share a glass of Ratzeputz, I obeyed his invitation and was grateful for the attention.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have said so,” she said crisply. “Telling the truth is a virtue.”
“You just said you didn’t. When you make up your mind, I’d be obliged to know.”
I am not the same person I was when I went away. I hope you are not either. Time destroys us all, makes us forget the pain, or perhaps in some cases, strengthens the evil. Is the evil strengthened, or have you forgiven me for telling you who I really was? I hope you have.
“It’s a dangerous woman who can fix your car better than you can.”
“You have a beautiful cross.”
She wrapped a hand around it, and the smile shifted to something graver. “I pray for the German people on it.”
“It’s valuable to carry to work with you. If someone saw it, they might try to take it from you. I would hate for you to be injured.”
A little, devilish amusement lurked around her hazel eyes, as if she rather wanted someone to try. “They would regret it.”
“I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“It’s something I put on with much reluctance—like a coat, I suppose. And then before it’s too late I have to catch myself and take it off again.”
That evening as he lay with Wolf pressed close against him for warmth, he fell asleep. And in his sleep, the pulsing ache of the stakes he had set twisted through his dreams. In one dream, he saw Lucie walking towards him with love lighting up her eyes. But just as he reached out to slip a small gold ring on her finger, a white hand with crooked fingers snatched the cross knife from Lucie’s neck and stabbed him again and again. He woke up with a start of panic and heard a whimper that couldn’t have come from Wolf. He had seen those fingers before somewhere. But what did they have to do with him?
“The British secret service has more vital uses of its time than accomplishing unnecessary individual revenge."
He remembered the anguish of cold steel cutting through flesh that dark night in Calais, feeling something wet run down his side, and the taste of salt, and the warm, sick smell of blood in the air.
“Forgive me.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “England too has its hardships. It is not as if this is America. Now they, I think, will leave this war almost as unscathed as when they entered it.”
Sydney Gavell leaned on his cane as he limped out. It was a black cane with gold inlay—a fine piece—with a gold lion’s head. He hadn’t seen that one before. It was certainly a piece to be remembered.
"He was everything I wanted. A kind of idol, I suppose. But he knew I worshiped him, and I think he took advantage of that to show me the face that I wanted to see, even though it didn’t belong to him.”
“Very well.” Slowly and gently, he took her hands and turned them over to kiss the palms. “I will wait. But every time you touch someone until then, I think you will remember me.”
“I’m woman enough to break bread at the same table with you.”
“And I am man enough to do the same.”
What he saw slammed him in the gut. It was a watercolor—a good watercolor, soft and true, with the kind, vivid lines of Carey’s face. The eyes stared back at him with that beautiful shade of milk chocolate brown, and the little dimpled dints in her cheeks made him want to reach out and touch them to see if they were real.
If a company of ghosts and mutes had gathered around his table, they could have been no more tormenting than the two men and two women who filed into the kitchen and took their silent places.
After a few minutes he caught himself singing an English folk song and broke off in mid line. It was his mother’s song. But he hadn’t been thinking of his mother while he hummed it. He had thought instead of a pretty pair of hazel eyes and the small, strong hands supporting Ernest at the top of the hospital steps. Strange. He couldn’t remember his mother’s face in sharp focus anymore. He had left all the photographs behind. Now it was a hazy memory, fast supplanted by someone younger and more present.
Put away the past, beloved, and make room in your heart for something new....We have been given another chance at life. Let us seize it, and not blaspheme God in heaven by rejecting the gift.